Death Has No Master
by Jack Mortem
Summary: Talon believes it has the perfect plan to slaughter Overwatch. It is simple. Arm their puppet Reaper with bootleg Overwatch technology. But the plan has unexpected side effects, and Reaper has plans of his own. Rated M for language and eventual violence. H/C elements will be implemented in later chapters, as well as WidowTracer.
1. Chapter 1: Power Hungry

Reaper stood in the center of the council room, his body illuminated by a sole beam of light. Darkness hung like a thick cloud. Before him lie a glass wall, separating the room in two. In the shadows behind the glass, he could just barely make out the silhouette of a long table. At the table sat the three dim outlines that made up Talon's High Council, noiselessly staring back at the masked mercenary, scrutinizing him as if from behind the lens of a microscope. They were the faceless voices that dealt out commands, organized strikes, and decided who on the long list of Talon enemies would meet a bloody end first. It was unlikely that being personally summoned by them would end well under any circumstance. He stood up a little straighter, his fingers nervously rubbing the grip of one of his shotguns. The voice of one of the council member abruptly ended the silence, causing his heart to skip a beat. "Reaper."

The voice was deep, manipulated to the point it undoubtedly bore no similarities to it owners real one. Reaper placed his hands behind his back to stop their nervous fiddling. "Yes?"

"It is well known that the council has, of lately, been doing intense research on the various members of Overwatch," the voice continued.

Reaper responded with a brief nod.

"And after Widowmaker's failed attempt to exterminate the operative 'Tracer'-"

A feeling of nausea swept over Reaper as the disgusting image of the perky Brit, (or at least he thought she was British, he quite frankly didn't give a fuck) and the mind-grating sound of her seemingly pre-pubescent voice filled his head. He unconsciously started to crack his knuckles.

"-we have taken a particular interest in the Overwatch agent's seemingly superhuman abilities."

Reaper made a quick attempt to put together the possible reasons why the Council would be telling him this. Perhaps they wanted him to do the honors of crushing the life out of the annoying brat? He would be more than happy.

"And what part do I play in this?" Reaper asked is his usual hostile growl. He could just barely see the center member lean forward and place their hands together.

"Through hacked Overwatch and government files, collected by our informant, we have managed to replicate the operatives enhanced movement and healing abilities."

Reaper stared at the three figures, his mask hiding the unimpressed look that now covered his face. "The shit the brat has been wearing was designed by an animal that should be locked in a zoo. Am I supposed to be impressed? How long did it take your scientists to bang their heads together and come up with this idea?" The idea of Talon trying to replicate anything was terrifying, let along something that most likely would destroy the flow of time.

"You fail to realize the complete circumstances of how the Operative gained her particular skill set."

Reaper could hear the growing frustration in the raspy, disembodied voice. It was true, he didn't understand how the brat had become the pest she was. But he had only made the remark as a direct stab at Talon's seemingly unlimited source of pride, and it seemed as though he had struck home. From behind the mask, he grinned. "Enlighten me, then."

The voice responded, annoyance becoming more and more apparent. "It is of little importance. There are much more important matters to attend to."

Reaper scoffed. "Is that so?"

"I don't particularly like your attitude, agent."

Reaper refrained from responding to the cliche line, the only things coming to mind being particularly toxic remarks. He had pushed his luck enough from one day. As if to prove the thought right, the voice seemed to wait for a second to see if the cloaked figure would voice any more quips before continuing. "You will be escorted to laboratory 24-D. Please try to work with the scientist. We don't need any more...incidents."

The glass wall slowly tinted, the material darkening from the edges to the center, like frost silently covering a window. Before long, the other half of the room became completely obscured. A large sliding door opened behind Reaper, the hydraulics hissing as they bore the load of the heavy, bulletproof metal. Two Talon soldiers marched into the room. The cloaked mercenary turned and exited the room, the soldiers trailing close behind him. He now had a concept of an idea of what was going on. If his guess was right, Talon would be trying to implement him with similar equipment as the little prick. He chuckled to himself as he imagined the look on the little shit's face as she suddenly zips away, thinking she is safe, only to have him appear in front of her. He savored the horrified look he imagined she would have the moment before her brain was smeared across the ground. A sadistic giddiness suddenly coursed through him. No, not her head, her guts, shoot her in the stomach and tear that fucking machine off her chest and watch as the life slowly faded from her terrified eyes. No longer would he have to hear her aggravating giggle as she disappeared, leaving him to miss what could have been a perfect kill shot. The soldiers beside him took no notice to his psychotic laughter. It was, quite frankly, commonplace. Talons clientele was never prized for its mental stability.

* * *

'Lab 24-D' wasn't much to speak of. In Reaper's experience, Talons facilities where sleek and high tech, vain in a certain sense, as if the architects were trying to hard to stress the organization's own importance. The room he now stood in reflected none of those qualities. In contrast, it looked as if it could very well fall apart at any given moment. The scent of chemicals overpowered the mercenary's lungs. He let out a rasping cough. The room felt a little too much like a hospital for his comfort, a business whose service went strictly against his own. The walls were lined with wooden cabinets opposed to the usual electric, steel lock-boxes and lockers. Strange, and in some cases, disturbing, instruments hung from various points in the ceiling like sadistic Christmas decorations. To finish the hospital-gone-torture dungeon motif, a large, swiveling metal seat stood riveted to the center of the floor, leather straps attract her every few inches, wires wrapping around and entering at various points. Reaper walked over to the chair for a closer look. Upon examination, he could see a series of small holes on the arm rests, each barely the size of a needle. He started to reach out his hand to inspect the chair further before being interrupted abruptly. "Don't touch, will you?"

Reaper glanced over his shoulder. The metal doors of the room had slid open without his notice, revealing a single, unimpressive man. He was not what the cloaked killer had expected. The man was short and stocky with thinning black hair, perhaps middle aged, the stereotypical scientist look finished off with a much too large white lab coat and a pair of thick round glasses. His mouth was curled in a seemingly impossible scowl. "And you are?..." Reaper questioned.

"It is of no importance who I am, in thirty minutes we will most likely never cross paths again."

"Yeah, things of no importance seem to be a trend today." Reaper replied, feeling a slight sense of irritation building deep inside of him, "Let's get one thing clear, my job is to be a highly efficient mercenary, and when people don't give me the full story, I find it...difficult to complete my job." One or two missions he had botched due to that very reason came to mind. Needless to say, the contractors didn't have much to complain about once he was done. Except being six feet underground, of course. The mercenary chuckled at that thought.

"Yes, anyway," The nameless scientist continued, flipping through a series of files he had inside a manila folder, "We mustn't waste any time. The Council had directed me to install the experimental used by the Operative code named 'Tracer.' They believe they can create a new 'super soldier,' a soldier that could utilize all the technology and enhanced abilities that the Overwatch operatives currently have." The scientist sat down in a chair near him. "Name?"

Reaper laughed harshly. "You're joking."

The balding man returned an irritated glare. Reaper cursed silently to himself, irrigation continuing to build. "Gabriel Reyes"

"Age?"

Reaper felt his hand reaching for one of his shotguns. "Look, can we skip this bullshit any get this over with?"

He received another patronizing look. "Fine," the scientist muttered to himself, "I don't get paid enough for dealing with asses like you anyways."

With a low growl, the cloaked killer's hands snapped instinctively to his shotguns. After a moment, however, he holstered them back to his sides. Killing Talon scientists would get him nowhere. Not that they didn't deserve it. He had found dozens of the scientists' files raving and ranting about how "Widowmaker was going to the 'miracle' weapon, a soldier to kill all soldiers" And what does she do? First time she was confronted by an _actual_ Overwatch operative she _fails._ Reaper was surprised the Council didn't have the scientists herded together like cattle and slaughtered. The sound of someone clearing their throat brought The mercenary back into the present. The scientist quickly pulled a small laptop from one of the many cabinets, and plugging it into a series of cords haphazardly connected to the metal seat, finally looking back up at his 'patient'.

"Sit down," He paused, glancing at the dual shotguns at Reapers hips. "Please." The scientist added, somewhat reluctantly.

Reaper glanced at the seat before staring down at the man in front of him. "Doesn't exactly look up to Talon code," He remarked Doubtfully, "Seems a bit...rough."

The scientist impatiently smashed at the keyboard, entering data beyond Reapers comprehension. "This entire room was furnished quite quickly. The dissociator-" he waved his hand towards the unsightly tangle of chair and wire, "-is largely experimental, but vital in replicating Tracers time-space abilities. Tests have been done, of course, but it never seems to work the same way twice. However, the margin of error has been reduced to what is considered a 'safe' variable."

The scientist took a moment to stretch his hands out before continuing, "Look Reyes, I don't exactly enjoy my job, and it's mainly because of head strong jackasses that like to question everything before they do it," He swiveled around to face the cloaked Talon mercenary, "They seem to miss the vital point that if they simply work with me instead of against me, that things would go incredibly smoother. Not to mention faster, and generally a lot cleaner." The short man crossed his arms and tilted his round head back slightly, as if he were a teacher disciplining a misbehaving student. "So, will we cooperate and have this done quickly, or do this the long and painful way?"

Hidden by the battle-worn mask, Reaper's eyes slowly narrowed. "Fine," Reaper dropped himself into the rather disconcerting chair in question.

"Thank you," The short man gave him a slightly exasperated smile, "Now if you would kindly remove your gauntlets."

Reluctantly, Reaper shed the two pieces of armor. The balding scientist stood up from his aging chair, and walking over to The mercenary, started to do the straps over his arms and torso. After He was securely confined to the chair, the scientist sat back in his own chair and continued to type on his laptop. "I must warn you, this will hurt."

Reaper laughed. "I have felt pain you could not even imagine."

The scientist glanced at the now restricted killer, raising a single eyebrow. "Perhaps, but I ensure you, this will be something completely new."

The scientist tapped one last key, and opening one of the many wooden cabinets, pulled out what appeared to be a welding mask. "The process will initiate is a second."

When the scientist had said the feeling was something completely new, he had meant it.

* * *

The whole process only lasted about five minutes, but to Reaper, it felt like days. Somewhat unsurprisingly, from the pattern of holes on the chairs arm rests came actual needles, jabbing deep into the muscle of his arms. He could feel as fluids were forced into his flesh. Whatever it was that they filled him with, he may never know. He would probably never care. At the moment, for all intents and purposes, it was pure acid, burning through his veins. He felt as if he was dissolving in the very chair he sat in, slowly disappearing. With a sudden shock of horror, he realized how true the analogy was. His entire body faded in and out, but not like when he shifted into a mist, it was more erratic, more violent, as if his body were being systematically shredded torn away from him. He tried to escape, passing through his bonds as a dark cloud, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move. He couldn't manage a single coherent thought, not even concentrate through the pain long enough to free himself. His mind scrambled to comprehend the pain his body was forced to endure. Images whirled around his head, images of things he recognized, people he knew, sounds, voices, scents, they all crushed in upon him, mixing and churning until it was all one incomprehensible wail of pain.

And suddenly, it stopped.

The agony, the noises, all gone. Not even an aching or ringing in his ears. The mercenary glanced down. A large, metal breastplate now lie fastened to his chest, deep red lights slowly pulsing like a menacing heartbeat. The balding scientist stood up, and dusting off his poor-fitting lab coat, walked over to the metal seat one last time to remove Reapers bonds. "This procedure, in theory, will have granted you the same time-space manipulation and healing abilities as Overwatch's operative Trace. Only one last thing remains, to test it." The scientist picked up the manila folder he had walked in with and a black ink pen, "If you kindly would walk to the door."

Reaper gently pushed himself up from the chair. Every join in his body seemed to pop or creak, as if he had been sitting there for an eternity. After stretching out his back and cracking his knuckles, he complied with the scientists orders, his boots clicking against the white metal floor with each step.

"Now here is the hard part," The short man scribbled some noted down while occasionally glancing at the cloaked mercenary, "Moving. With practice, this will become second nature, but until then, this will feel distinctly alien, like flexing a muscle you have never used."

"Sure doc, just tell me what to do." Reaper hissed, his voice condescending and sarcastic.

The scientist looked particularly irritated with his new given title, but continued anyway. "You need to focus on where you where a second ago. But not just imaging the area, the entire _feeling_ of what it was like when you were there. Don't be alarmed it if does not work instantly, it takes significant practice. Try to focus on the moment I removed the straps"

Closing his eyes, Reaper tried to focus on the exact second that the doctor had loosened his bonds. For a second he though he felt something, his heart beating faster. Behind the mask, his eyes snapped open. Nothing. He still stood at the door, staring back at the haphazard metal chair. "Looks like it isn't going to work."

The scientist furiously scratched at his paper with his pen. "Perhaps try to think of when the process took place, in theory, the more emotion you felt in the moment, the easier it will be to visualize and move to."

Again, the mercenary closed his eyes, this time he envisioned the chaos of the procedure. He tried to feel the unadulterated agony, hear the deafening noise, see the flashing images. He felt his hands shiver, an annoying pain starting to build, slowly growing, growing until it was unbearable. But he did not yet open his eyes. Still the pain grew, and then the wailing, the colors swimming around him. With a cry of alarm, he collapsed to the ground. After a moment, he let his eyes open. He slowly propped himself up, leaning on the white, metal doors. Doors? Fuck, yet again it failed. "Alright 'doc', I've had just about enough of-"

The mercenary could feel his head swim. Something, something almost like terror filled him for a second. Before him, sitting in the chair, was him. He quickly darted his eyes to his body, patting himself down, making sure he was still there. His head snapped back up. The figure in the chair mirrored his every move. After a moment, something built up inside of him. Words could not describe it. Something primal, something animalistic, something... _psychotic._ A deep, rasping laugh escaped from his throat. And then another. The two howled with an unnerving cackle, and suddenly, they both became silent. The scientist stared with a look of total shock and absolute terror. And in a devious, cruel two part harmony, the creatures spoke.

"Intriguing."

* * *

 **Sorry for this long and somewhat ranting story. It probably isn't the greatest, most likely due to the fact it was written while I was dead tired. I have a lot of plans for places it could go, so if anyone is interested in more, I'd be more than happy to continue. If I do anything else, I promise it will be a bit shorter and more bite sized. I just really wanted to establish one of the main conflicts of the story before going any further. On a side note, I plan to incorporate some elements of romance in the later chapters, but probably not soon. I'll also try to refrain from dropping any other home made characters into the mix like the scientist or Council, as I know people generally just want to see the original characters, and not random filler characters. But seriously, for whoever makes it this far, thank you for sticking with me, and please be at least somewhat merciful, this is my first fanfiction, and my first thing I've written in a while.**

 **Edit: I have now gone through and fixed all grammatical errors and typos. I'm very sorry for not doing this beforehand.**


	2. Chapter 2: Division

The sun set on the far horizon, bathing the scientific complex in pale golden light. A late winter chill gently drifted with the blow of the wind. The surrounding ocean gently lapped against the motionless coast. McCree Stood on the roof of one of Gibraltar's Overwatch facilities, silently drinking in the scenery. If he just closed his eyes, tuned out all the sounds of civilization and Overwatch routines, he could almost imagine he was back in the American south west. Perhaps on New Year's Eve of a mild winter. He let the smoke from his waning cigar escape from his mouth. After the recall, McCree felt as if he hadn't gotten a single moment to himself. Help fix this monitor, help carry that crate, help Winston set up rooms, give Pharah a hand with her missiles. He felt as if he was being worked into his grave. A momentary pang of shame. It was a childish notion, to think he was the sole target of the overbearing work. All of Overwatch was being pushed to its limit, everyone scurrying around frantically and trying to juggle tasks like a super high-tech parody of a circus, all white-washed and branded with Overwatch's signature flair. But McCree wasn't used to the bustling, and more specifically, team oriented nature of Overwatch. For a solid few years, he lived largely isolated from most everyone, only showing up when things got out of hand, or when the possibility of a significant paycheck arose. The lone wolf that has developed still paced about in him, feeling violated by the sudden lack of space. Perhaps one day, when Talon final had fallen, he could return to the south west, live a quiet life again. He sighed, flicking the remaining stub of his cigar over the side of the building.

"I believe Winston set strict rules on littering, Jesse. And Dr. Ziegler has taken a particular disliking to your smoking."

He inhaled deeply, and slowly let the breath back out. Solitude? Who was he kidding. He'd probably have the cybernetic littering deputy stalking him for the rest of his life.

"'Evening Genji."

The mechanical ninja nodded. "I hope I haven't bothered you."

The slightly disgruntled cowboy snorted before spitting on the roof, his mechanical friend slightly put off by the action. "Nah," McCree responded, "Just trying to find some quiet."

An uneasy silence descended between the two. Off in the distance, the sound of a heated discussion drifted into earshot. Only a few words were intelligible, but he could recognized the deep German accent of Reinhardt, probably complaining about someone misplacing his hammer. "You miss it, don't you," Genji said, silently striding over to take a place next to McCree. Receiving a questioning glance from the cowboy, he added, "Home, that is."

"Ah," McCree turned his gaze back to the ocean, "Yeah, you could say that."

For a while they simply stood there, staring longingly into the sliver of sun that gently sunk into the pink-orange horizon. "When do you think this will all be over?" McCree asked, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, "When do you think we will finally rid ourselves of Talon and finally be able to go about living our lives?"

Genji took a moment to think about the question, fiddling with the shrunken reserves in his hand. Something about the question seemed to put the generally deadpan ninja in a state of unease, which quite frankly disturbed McCree. "I cannot say," he paused, "perhaps a few months, perhaps a year, perhaps a lifetime." His voice trailed off as he finished his sentence. Reinhardt's argument again took center place.

With a grunt, McCree removed his hat, scratching at the back of his head before returning it to its perch. "Yeah, well, I don't have a lifetime to wait." His tone suddenly took on a somewhat cynical quality.

The sun finally sunk from the sky, the dregs of the now pink and purple sunset yielding to the dark of night. It seemed all the sudden that the noises industry all fell away, and in the shadows the cities dissolving from view, revealing the world as it had once been. McCree glanced over at the mechanical man besides him. A faint grin flickered across his face. Even over just the past few weeks, it felt as if the two had been through more than is all his days in Blackwatch combined. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could allow one friend to accompany him after his job at Overwatch was done. What was a sheriff without his deputy? Slowly but surely, the primitive sounds of night made themselves known. Just one friend to share his adventure…

"Whacha lookin' at loves?"

McCree gently shut his eyes, groaning. Had he said all that aloud? Was everyone in this facility taking the very moment he wanted some time to himself to suddenly talk to him? The duo turned around to face the newcomer. McCree gripped the end of his hat, tipping it in greeting, "Lena."

Genji, however seemed slightly less pleased, "Why must you always do that?"

She placed her hands on her hips, her trademark lopsided grin plastered to her face, "Do what love?"

Lights started to flicker on in Gibraltar, as if to proclaim night had finally come. The mechanical ninja crossed his arms, the light reflecting from his metal body. "Your entrance of choice, popping up randomly without warning."

"What's wrong with that?" She was clearly offended by Genji's remark.

"It is...unnerving."

"Just how I like it love." She giggled, and in a streak of blue, disappeared from sight.

Trying not to lose his patience, McCree massaged his neck with both hands. He should have guessed that no matter where he went, no matter what place he thought he could claim as his place of quiet, someone would find him sooner or later.

Genji, seeing his friends frustration, started to walk back to the Gibraltar living quarters, "I think it's about time I retire for the night."

The cowboy stood at the roofs edge, again attempting to drink in the complete emptiness of the nighttime world before he too inevitably would have to succumb to sleep. He sighed, finally feeling content.

"Why do you stand here staring at ocean? You could be using time to train!"

He shook his head, laughing to himself. Tonight just wasn't his night.

* * *

Despite being fairly new to Talon, Reaper prided himself on already knowing every crack and crevice of the building. In his mist form, he could efficiently traverse the facility using the system of vents and ducts. 'Learning the territory' as Morrison had always said. Despite hating his former teammate for taking everything Reyes had ever aimed for, he could not deny that Jack was a tactical genius. Reaper tried chuckled quietly to himself, only to remember in his mist form such an act was impossible. He knew the building better than the architects that designed the Talon structure, and had memorized the routines of every important agent.

Reaching a vent at the dead end of one of the many ducts, he drifted out, materializing without sound. Widowmaker's room. He couldn't help but laugh. It was pitiful, a simple seven by seven foot area that was more close to a closet than an actual living space. A small cot lie in the corner of the room, opposite of the vent he had entered from, and to the right of the metal sliding door. Her rifle, the widow's kiss, sat underneath the 'bed', a cloth lovingly wrapped around it for protection. Reaper glanced around. Asides from that, nothing. He popped his neck. In exactly seven minutes, Widowmaker would be returning from debriefing with the High Council. He sat down on the cot. Instantly, he felt something hard under the beds single blanket. Reaching beneath the cover, he felt around and, finding the objects he had sat on, pulled out two books. Reaper felt an uncontrollable peal of laughter escaped him. He recognized the first book. Yellow cover, thin, with the title "Don't forget me" written in white stylized letters. Some cheap romance novel written by some most likely poverty level author. He couldn't resist. Seeing the bookmark roughly halfway through, the cloaked mercenary immediately opened to book to her marked page. The book was obviously well used, the corners worn down and discolored. Flipping through the book, he found numerous pages with notes and sketches on the margins, some scratched out. A series of pages near the end were stuck together, appearing as if water had been dripped onto them. Reaper scoffed to himself. It was well known that the woman could get unruly between mind-wipes, but this, this was _ridiculous_. The Mercenary tore out a few pages, just in case he needed leverage over Widowmaker at some point. After a moment however, a heartless sneer pulled at his lips. He tossed the pages on the ground. He had taken the incriminating evidence on instinct, but in a few hours he never again would be answering to the 'high council'. Dropping the first book to the cold steel floor, he inspected the second. Small, bound with a purple dyed leather, and slightly stained with blood. Probably taken off the corpse of one of her kills. He guessed that the book was a journal of some kind. The sadistic grin grew. "Now what do we have here."

The mercenary cleared his throat. "Dear diary," he began in a mocking french accent, "today I shot someone in ze head, Reyes again killed more people zan me, and Talon still treats me like shit."

Chuckling at his own joke, he flipped opened the leather journal to a marked page. A shiver shot down his spine, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. His hands suddenly became numb. The book slipped, tumbling to the floor, and with a dull thump, it closed. But the image would not leave. It was burned into his retina. On each page, a perfect rendering of a face, masterfully sketched in pencil. But the faces, it was the way they stared. Each sketch seemed to capture the exact moment before death, that one fraction of a second of agony before the eyes go blank. Except for one. The last portrait. He recognized the face. The innocent stare, the look of shock, the mouth that hung just barely open in disbelief. _Tracer._ After a moment, he kicked the book to the opposite side of the room, not caring about the amount of damage his metal boots did the delicate object. He had no qualms with death, but the way the faces just seemed to _accuse._ It was like they were not sketches, but phantoms. Suddenly, the mercenary had second thoughts on his plan. He had no idea what Talon had done to her, but clearly, buried beneath the calm and collectiveness of Widowmaker was a mad woman, the broken remains of the girl she once was. He started to get up to make a hasty exit, but the sound of boots clicking down the hallway convinced Reaper to do otherwise.

* * *

The day had, in technical terms, been shit. It was the routine. Widowmaker quickly made her way back to her room, ignoring the haughty scientists and patronizing soldiers. She tried to act normal. Act calm. But no matter what she did, a little bit of the dejectedness crept into her gait. It was the way they treated her. The way no one ever truly addressed her. The way they could just pass her by, not even saying a simple greeting. She grasped her head as if in pain. No, no, those were not her thoughts!

 _Why do they treat me like this?_

 _Shut up_ _imbécile!_

It was a flaw in her programing. Some little part of the girl she once was still was somewhere inside of her. No matter how many times they wiped her mind or tried to repossess her, no matter how much she tried to snuff the girl out, drown her in the ocean of her new self, somehow Amélie still managed to cling on. Sure, for a few day after a mind wipe she would have a clear mind, but always, always the voice came back to her, arguing, pleading, yelling. She hated her. She was like a parasite, a disease that could only be kept in check, but not annihilated.

 _You are calling me,_ me, _an imb_ _écile?_

 _You are a sickness._

 _And you are an interloper!_

 _Why can you not be silent?_

 _Because you cannot be silent, chérie._

A snarl escaped her lips. It was impossible to concentrate with that _girl_ constantly criticizing her. A passing soldier, hearing the animalistic sound, peered at her. She responded with a death glare, and the soldier hastily walked off, quickly glancing over his shoulder when he seemed to think he was at a safe distance. Gradually the voice had gotten worse. Sometimes she would just scream. Scream until Widowmaker couldn't stand it any more. That's what she had done at King's Row. She would have been able to execute that operative if she had simply _shut up._

 _You know her name._

 _Of course I do, I know the names of all my victims._

 _But she was not a victim._

 _She would be if you could hold your tongue!_

 _You know that's not true._

Widowmaker clenched her fists, as if driving her nails into her palms would somehow silence Amélie, hurt her.

 _You are pitiful. Why would you stay here?_

 _Because it is my duty!_

 _I had many duties, be a loving wife, a caring mother. You were excited, remember? And then Talon came, tore all those hopes down until they where only our dreams. I know you. You want to escape._

 _Non_ _Mademoiselle._

 _And yet you will go into your room and read that book, pretend it is you on the pages._

 _I do that in hope that you will leave me alone!_

 _Je ne vous croyez._

The blue-skinned assassin finally reached the door to her room. Glancing both ways down the white, metal hallway, she entered a pass code into a small, digital number pad near the right side of the door. With a soft hum, the door slid open. The sight that greeted her was anything but welcome. The mercenary Reaper lounged on her bed, as if he had been waiting for some time. And then her heart dropped into her stomach. On the floor was Amélie's book, pages torn carelessly from the binding scattered around it. In the corner of the room opposite from her bed lay the leather journal, it's purple cover bent and scratched. All she could do was stand stunned. Somewhere inside of her, the little fragment of Amélie cried out.

"Widowmaker, I believe we have something we must discuss."

Her eyes bore into him as she regaining her steely composure.

"What is this?" She motioned towards the debris on the floor.

His mask abruptly turned towards her. The metal door automatically hissed shut, cutting the two off from the rest of the world. "I redecorated. Your room looked a little...drab."

It would only take a second to launch a venom mine at the cloaked intruder, grab her rifle, and kill him where he sat. Her eye twitched. It would be pointless. Reaper was Talon's top mercenary. As long as he was armed, and Widowmaker wasn't, she was at the disadvantage. And even if she managed to grab her gun, he would simply skulk away in a cloud of mist. After a few moments, the mercenary became visibly uncomfortable. With great effort, she managed to hide the smirk that threatened to appear on her lips.

"Anyway, I came here to speak to you about something."

"Continue Monsieur."

Something unnerving entered the way Reaper stared at her. She was sure that, behind the war torn mask, a wolfish grin resided. It was like he held some secret…

"With the help of our ever-competent scientists, I have come across a weapon that could tear Overwatch apart."

Widowmaker's eyes widened, narrowing again just as quickly. Why would Reaper come to her? It all felt wrong. Reaper, while being an incredible tactical leader thanks to his time in Blackwatch, liked to do things along, perhaps with the help of a few underlings that would be easily manipulated. Is that what he thought of her?

"All you have to do is help me overthrow Talon."

There it was. The catch. No matter how much she yearned to Overwatch crumble, she could not betray Talon.

 _It is unwise to trust him, but he promises freedom_ and _the fall of Talon!_

 _No. I live to eliminate the enemies of Talon._

 _Mon Dieu, what is wrong with you!_

"Monsieur, I am afraid i must decline the offer, and if you persist, i will be forced to report you to the High Council."

Glaring into the dark voids of his mask, she tried to stand up straighter, make herself more imposing than the hulking mercenary before her. Abruptly, something caught her eye. Welded to Reapers chest was large chest plate, the seams between metal sheets glowing a crimson red, slowly pulsing in and out. That most definitely had not been there the day prior. Her attention was violently ripped away from the strange piece of armor as the Mercenary convulsed in a inhuman cackle.

"What has Talon ever done for you?" He hissed, leaning forwards, his mask inches away from her face. "Then don't even see you as human! You are a weapon, Widowmaker, a rifle that they can point in a direction and have it shoot for them! You are no better than Morrison's visor! Can you not see that? What loyalty could you possible have for Talon?"

She crossed her arms. "I will not betray Talon."

The room darkened, the red pulse bathing the room in crimson. From the chest plate, the sound of whirring motors. The lights flickered, and finally gave out. The hum of Talon machinery in the distance faded. Gradually the pulsing became brighter, the whirring louder, louder…

"I think you misunderstood me. Perhaps I should restate."

And in a fraction of a second, everything went back to normal. The lights flashed on, the machinery restarted, and the crimson heartbeat subsided.

"You join me, or you die."

Her body froze, paralyzed, an alien feeling coursing through her body. Fear. A feeling she had not experienced in a long time. She tried to reason what happened, but logic refused to explain what she heard. The voice of Reaper, no two voices, identical, but neither of them from the Mercenary that gloated at her bed. She closed her eyes, and turned her head, and slowly opened her eyes once more.

"So, what will it be, Widowmaker?"

* * *

 **Translations**

 **Mademoiselle: Miss**

 **Imbécile: Idiot**

 **Chérie: Dear/Sweet**

 **Monsieur: Sir/Mister**

 **Je ne vous croyez: I don't believe you**

 **So, again, thank you to everyone who has read this far. I'm not a great writer, but I'm trying to get better, so constructive criticism is** _ **highly**_ **welcome. I did not expect you get any real response to the story, so also thank you to everyone who has added a favorite, followed, and reviewed so far. I'll try to get chapters out more quickly in the future, but I don't want to rush. I want to enjoy the writing. Chapters also would probably easier to write if I didn't play so much Overwatch, but that's a different argument entirely (fun fact i learned in my last match: one of the most popular places to put your sprays in King's Row is on the picture of** **Mondatta in Mondatta's shrine. No respect for the dead, some people.) Lastly, in response to A guest's review reminding me that Reaper is only a mercenary for Talon, and not 100 percent working for them: I'm sorry I kind of messed with his character, that is generally something I hate when other people do, but in my defense, Talon is a terror organization on (most likely) a worldwide scale. No matter how bad ass Reaper is, he couldn't take on Talon by himself, so his initial actions could be excused as simply not wanting to deal with all of Talon. But he isn't be himself anymore, is he? *Insert evil laughter* Other than that, I hope you enjoyed this chapter** **!**

 **Edit: Oh my god, fuck, I'm sorry, I legitimately though McCree's name was 'McGree', I fucked up, if anyone sees me misspell it again please tell me.**


	3. Chapter 3: Unease

Cheerful laughter echoed through Gibraltar. The entire facility seemed desolate, not a single scientist in sight. Not even the usual guard patrol strode the quiet halls. The small silence before the storm, one might say. Unnerving, unnatural, as if something was hiding. If the two lone operatives had simply listened, felt the air, they might have noticed the nervous energy that coursed, pulsing through the ground, spreading through the walls.

"-And that's when I lean forward and say 'It's high noon.' You know what he did?"

McCree heaved with laughter, nearly losing balance. His pink haired companion reached out a hand to steady him, of which the cowboy tried tried to bat away, only to unsteady him even more.

"I'm good, I'm good."

After leaving McCree's perch on the roof, the two had taken too Gibraltar's cafeteria, where they convinced the cafeteria cooks to lend few bottle of alcohol to them. The Russian had insisted on vodka, and after a few minutes of cajoling and a transaction of a few pounds, the two had managed to get three bottles of the drink. It didn't take long for McCree to realize his drinking companion could withstand much more of the booze than he.

"As I was saying...wait...what was I saying?"

The pink haired Russian raised her left eyebrow. "I believe you reached the punchline."

McCree pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately to remember the punchline, or even the joke, that he had been telling. After a few moments, he simply gave up. "Well damn, I think I've lost it."

Glancing over at the woman next to him, he grinned. She was certainly a sight to see. The way her muscles rippled beneath her skin seemed to hypnotize the significantly shorter cowboy. And the way she carried herself, so completely confident, as if she didn't care who saw her. She didn't shy from the spotlight, a trait McCree found himself subconsciously envying. After a moment, he realized she returned his gaze, albeit questioningly. Heat flooded to his face.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat a bit too loudly, "I've been blatherin' on for hours, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"

She didn't respond for a moment, simply staring out into the night sky. The only thing that broke the silence was the gentle sound of breathing and the hum of nature. "What would you want to know?"

McCree squinted his eyes, trying to think clearly for a second. Abruptly, he remembered a question he had been meaning to ask before he had put his liver through trial by fire. "You're Russian," A look of cynical disappointment.

"I mean, the Russians always kind of kept their distance from Overwatch. During the Omnic crisis, Russia refused Overwatch help," He tried to turn towards her and walk at the same time, to say the least, it didn't work. Hr dusted himself off, somewhat clumsily picking himself up. "Just seems odd that now we are working together."

With a soft grunt, she stretched her shoulders. "Da, I fight in that war," she murmured, "It feels like long time ago."

Again, the two quieted. Muffled chatter came from a nearby open window, however this time McCree was unable to recognize any particular voices. They passed by, and soon that too was lost to the silence.

"The gorilla sent a request that I join. He seemed urgent," the tone of her voice became deadly serious, "I have met many leaders. Leaders must be calm, logical, even perhaps detached. When a leader is worried, you can be sure something is wrong. And if the leader of Overwatch is worried…"

McCree nodded. It wasn't anything new. Winston had seemed to become progressively more and more paranoid. He was expecting something. Something big. Something violent. The resident gorilla had been busy.

"Sounds just like Winston. Poor bastard's been driving himself mad in that small laboratory of his."

He felt a frown pulling at the ends of his mouth. He didn't like to admit it, but he had found himself becoming more and more in a state unease over the past few weeks. Everyone seemed worried. Or at least quite a few. Or maybe just Genji and Winston, but those were the two McCree had come to expect a certain steely resolve from. Few things ever bothered them, and when they did, it generally ended quite messily. To find them just...nervous, it was worrying. He shook his head, as if to dispel the thought. He couldn't let himself get carried away in his theorizing. Winston would speak his mind in due time. All McCree could do was hope the reality of the situation was not as bad as what his mind made it seem to be. Back in the southwest, nothing like this ever happened…

McCree internally scolded himself. Again, his thoughts wandered back to his old home. But it was true, back on his solo days, the most he had to worry about was not running out of money for basic needs. Thanks to the world's never ending need for a gun for hire, not even money was a real issue. But now, now things were different. When someone came in a three mile radius of their little base, every one would erupt into a paranoid frenzy, and when, god forbid, a _plane_ flew by, the way people reacted you could have sworn Talon was actively dropping nukes on the city. He remembered what Tracer had said to him once: "We can always use more heroes". But the more he stayed, the more the cowboy wondered whether the heroes where to protect the people, or to defend Overwatch. If could get to feel like Watchpoint Gibraltar was a military base constantly set on red alert, only to turn on its head and become some recreational home. The fluctuation between the two just didn't seem right. To an outsider, it would appear that the Overwatch agents didn't truly take their jobs seriously. Especially with people like Tracer. The girl's fame seemed to get to her head too easily. She was, admittedly, an easily recognizable person, but McCree disliked the way she acted a public figure, something about it seemed innately connected. But maybe he just thought that because his only claim to fame was, at one point, being on wanted posters in every city, town, and village in New Mexico.

A voice jarred him from his thoughts, "I believe your room is in the opposite end of the hall."

McCree blinked a few times, regaining his bearings. He then pulled his hat down slightly in an attempt to cover most of his face. In his musings, he had unintentionally followed his companion all the way to her room.

"Sorry 'bout that." He started to leave before a thought dawned on him, "Well, I don't believe I caught the name."

"Zarya," She held out a hand.

"Jesse McCree." He reached out to shake her hand, only to feel as if his hand was collapsing in on itself. When she let go, there was no trace of any malice, so the cowboy was left to assume it was by accident. He gently popped his knuckles, the loud cracking he only assumed to be the sound of his fingers sliding back into place. His attention was drawn away from his throbbing hand as the sound of frantic knocking filled up the long, white steel hall. Lena stood at his door, shouting banging a fist on the sliding door.

"McCree! Wake up love! McCree! _McCree!_ Come on damn it, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

McCree glanced back at the pink haired woman. She shrugged, a look of confusion on her face. "Lena, over here partner."

In a blue flash, the tight-clad woman materialized in front of him. The woman looked awful, skin paled, hair even messier than usual. Without warning, she started to spout words so fast they seemed to run together until they became more of a sound then speech.

Holding his hands up, McCree finally managed to stop her ranting, "Lena, breath, don't say anything, just breath, and fix your goggles, they're upside down."

She wildly pulled the orange goggles off, only to get them caught on her rather oddly shaped arm guards.

"Whoa, whoa, just stop," He caught her hands before she tangled herself any more, "Just tell us what you came here to say. Slowly."

"Winston, 'e needs you t' get on a leaving Overwatch jet. Talon's launched a full scale attack on Manhattan, it's turning into a damn war zone! 76 has called for backup, but no one is able to get there!"

McCree stared at her questioningly. It wasn't Talons style to fight all out battles. They liked to hit and run, assassinate, sabotage, but not fight wars.

"Are you one hundred percent sure that's what Winston said," the cowboy asked, "It's not like Talon to do that."

"It's what he said, now let's go!" He could hers the distraught undertone in her voice.

In the blink of an eye, she was gone. McCree started to follow, only to feel someone reach out to stop him. He glanced over his shoulder at the Russian.

"I come too, I like a good fight," a near unnerving grin spread across her face.

McCree nodded. "Make sure they don't leave without me. I'm going to go get some pills from Ziegler. Something tells me we are gonna need them in the morning."

He sprinted off, only for a grim thought to come to mind. The flight could take hours, and that meant lives.

* * *

 **Ok, so this part was a bit slow and short, so sorry about that. The problem is that I had written two chapters, but neither of them where this chapter. I had this bit done, so I decided that I might as well post it instead of having a full week if radio silence. This little portion seemed to have a good conclusion, so here it is! I'll have more out very soon. Thanks a lot for sticking along this long. Seriously, every time someone reviewed, favorited, or followed, it was like being a kid opening a present on Christmas.**

 **Again, constructive criticism is highly welcome. I play Overwatch, but I don't know every little fact about every character, so if you see an inconsistency, or anyone too out of character,** _ **please tell me.**_


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